Motel moons, left of face
In room 12, a thing named Grace
She's missing ***** & he's missing eggs-
Band-Aids on the neck
Royal Hawaiian
Big Ad's A-Flyin' (Bye!)
Cowboys in black dusters
And aliens in track suits
Drinking coffee with the common man
Blue-hooded and faceless, walks by again
Third-reel-real headshot,
Kept as a souvenir by an FBI actor
A man can do a lot with his chin
Uncle Sam's tonic & gin
Not made to be an Earthling
Not fit to be an alien
Stars are flickering lights
On Big Empty nights
Three days in the desert
Minus pie sauce in the sky
What's in the blue suitcase?
Why the blue bowling shoes to get to that place?
"Just get on the bus, Gus...
... And get yourself free"
Blue-sky clouds on black
Whipped cream & jack
The United States of Aliens
And a Person in a circle

With a name like Ruth
You know she’s a babe
Kickstart her heart
And she’ll tear you apart

Old in spirit
Young in body
***** and dusty
A compact, unclean model

Buzz-box motor
Straight down a highway
She’s got sixty horse power
She’s bucking bronco wild

Guzzling gasoline
Rocks out to old school rock’n’roll
She’s a Saturday night special
With a hippie ***** stamp

Jealousy rips up the road
And now I’m in a rage
But it ain’t her fault
I’m just materialistic

Miniature but mighty,
I don’t take her lightly
And I don’t know if it’s likely,
But I want that Ruthie to be mine

The smell of swiss fondue
a chocolate fountain
moist strawberries
angel food cake.
The smell of brunch buffet
apple turnovers
honey sliced ham
bacon and eggs.
The smell of exhaust
as we walk
to the chapel
up Oliver Street.
The smell of flowers
rainbowed daises
heart shaped lilies
a single red rose
on the broach
of your six year old
brother.
The smell of family
friends neighbors.
The smell
of your six year old
sister
beautiful Easter dress
sky blue ribbons
silk bonnet
blonde hair
smooth skin embalmed
because leukemia
doesn't smell.
Today
we will all
believe in God
or pretend
at least
for you, her sister,
her mother,
her father,
her twin brother,
and for Ruthie,
her chest buried
in tear soaked flowers
in a four foot casket.

my younger sister
never allowed fun
to limit her imagination.
at a mere five years old,
she decided she wanted to become an ice cream truck driver
at six,
she wanted to save the world.
seven,
she wanted world peace.
eight,
world peace.
nine,
world peace.
ten,
love.
eleven,
a boyfriend.
twelve years,
nine months and three days,
lighter skin.
i remember her
questioning days in pre-school
what color am i? she’d ask.
and her inquisitiveness
never allowed black to be accepted
as a proper answer.
Ruthie, we share the same color
but not the same complexion.
too much melanin, not enough skin.
the people in your pigment are waiting for a prayer
to be prayed back to the hands that once found
power in praying.
let not the lashes of historical context blind judgment.
they oppressed our kind.
feared the golden in your flesh
so they bore a color wheel of acceptable shades
and suggested brown be bad.
she laughs at black jokes, but don't be one.
and somewhere between spanish sailboats
and slave ships
you lost the strength in stride.
you let them white-wash your worries
and bury your woes in waste.
they beat her blue until she bled acceptability,
not blackness.
But
pale isn’t perfect
and black isn’t bad.
embrace the dirt in your darkness
for what could explain the foundation
that fertilized your fancy
better than you?
your people stomped on grounds
they called home
and sprouted seeds of
brown
black
beautiful
babies,
you.
she questioned God’s existence today.
she questioned why her skin tone was
the color of disease,
but she knows not the shade of ailment.
our culture brought freedom
to a situation where we could only see *******.
I want to tell her to not hate God,
not even close,
not even a little bit,
not even at all.
that our black is not rooted in shame.
that she should not feel ashamed,
or silenced,
or transparent.
I want to tell her to
enjoy the diaspora in her Africa.
she's thirteen today.
Nourish your plateau sister.
Find the strength in your coffee,
and never ever let the brown in your *** stop dancing.

Ruthie Plackett lost her jacket
On the Severn line,
And once misplaced, she never traced
The things she kept inside:

Her recipes for aft’noon teas,
For scones with clotted cream,
For warm tray-bakes and sandwich cakes,
Of which her reg’lars dream.

And in there too, a tube of glue
With which she would repair
The cracking plates and old milk crates:
Make do and mend with care.

Her keys: no loss; at negligible cost
She’d soon have them replaced,
And the Carmex tin with not much in
Had acquired a funny taste.

It was, in fact, the lining that
Concealed a paring knife,
And with its blade, Ruthie had made
A move against a life.

Decades passed, and no-one asked
About the shadowy fella
Briefly seen, and darkly keen,
Now buried in the cellar.

So Ruthie Plackett, in her lined fur jacket,
Rode the Severn line,
And through her plight, she held on tight
To the secret hid inside.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 3, 2014)


The journey of a thousand miles begins
with one small word,
a word that is not une pipe,
a word that it takes more than effort—
mere focus—to incorporate back into the journey,
a word that requires exercise, sweating
over the assembly of combinations and clues,
yoga stretching over accidental and malicious gaps,
a word strung into licorice, chopped, blocked
and set into rows,

the journey of a thousand letters
carved and installed like a Michelangelo
in front of your neighbor’s house,
the doorbell rung, tie straightened,
hat in hand:

“Can I help you?”
“A poem in time saves nine.”
“Sorry but I gave at the office.”

It’s a long haul, this journey.
Everything’s a commodity or a charity
these days, even for you, Truthie Ruthie,
who will write 3 lines to change the world
or the art—as soon as you can find your pens.

My 115 personalities don't crash with cracked-up loser Sybil whose
furry *** wins love in the dark, 2 sips of cream in a bowl of kibble
543 spooky incarnations ain't wrecked wacky schizoid Sybil whose
**** is prized by Central Park hobos ******* in kitty-littered dribble
or whose ****'s holy with crack hoes shooting dope without quibble



The Selves of Sybil from Wiki:

    Peggy: A nine-year-old girl who believes she is still in the small town in which Sybil grew up. Peggy holds the rage Sybil felt at her mother's abuse and frequently expresses her anger through temper tantrums and breaking glass. Like many of the selves, she enjoys drawing and painting. She fears hands, dishtowels, music, and the colors green and purple, all triggers to specific instances of abuse.
    Vicky: A very sophisticated and mature twelve-year-old girl who is aware of all the other personalities and knows everything the others do, though Sybil does not. Vicky speaks French and claims to have grown up in Paris with many brothers and sisters and loving parents. The dominant personality and the only personality to undergo hypnosis.
    Vanessa: A young, vibrant, red-haired girl about twelve years old, she is outgoing and full of "joie de vivre". Falls in love with Richard and helps Sybil build a relationship with him, until he moves away.
    Marcia: A young girl obsessed with thoughts of death and suicide, who tries to **** herself (and thus Sybil) on several occasions. Dresses in black.
    Ruthie: A preverbal infant. When Sybil is extremely frightened, she regresses into Ruthie and cannot move or speak.
    Mary: Named for and strongly resembles Sybil's grandmother. When Sybil's grandmother (the only person Sybil felt loved her) died, Sybil was so bereft that she created Mary as an internalized version of Grandma. Mary speaks in the voice of an old woman and frequently behaves as one.
    Nancy: A product of Sybil's father's religious fanaticism, Nancy fears the end of the world and God's punishment.
    Clara: Around 8–9 years old. Very religious; critical and resentful of Sybil.
    Helen: Around 13–14 years old. Timid and afraid, but determined "to be somebody".
    Marjorie: Around 10–11 years old. Serene and quick to laugh, enjoys parties and travel.
    Sybil Ann: Around 5–6 years old. Pale, timid and extremely lethargic; the defeated Sybil.
    Mike: A brash young boy who likes to build and do carpentry. He builds bookshelves and a partition wall for Sybil's apartment, frightening her badly when she doesn't know how they got there. He and Sid both believe that they will grow penises and be able "to give a girl a baby" when they're older.
    Sid: Younger and a little more taciturn than Mike, he also enjoys building things, as well as sports. Identifies strongly with Sybil's father and wants to be like him when he grows up.

Ruthie Ginsburg is gone, and that's sad.
Trump will find a replacement to add.
Let us look on and cheer
As appointment draws near;
The progressives now drive themselves mad.

From the ACLU to the Court,
she promoted the right to abort.
You may claim she was God's
but she seemed, by all odds
more a midwife of murderous tort.

Say goodbye. All her honor is spent.
A new judge now begins their ascent.
Ruthie's star has gone dead.
A black hole . . . or a red?
(Only Jesus can say where she went.)

Ruthie Ginsburg is gone, and we’re glad.
Trump has found her replacement to add.
Let us look on and cheer!
The appointment is here
And progressives now drive themselves mad.

From the ACLU to the Court,
Ruth promoted the right to abort.
You may claim she was God’s
but she seemed, by all odds
more a midwife of murderous tort.

Say hello. Ginsburg’s honor is spent.
The new judge now begins her ascent .
Ruthie’s star has gone dead.
A black robe . . . or a red?
(Only Jesus can say where she went.)

        Postscript:

     Amy’s IN ! (and appointed to judge.)
     Rabid Liberal: curse not, nor begrudge.
     Are you feeling resigned?
     Your own team failed to find
     Any dirt; not a stain nor a smudge.